Head Over Heels
by Kizzia
Summary: John stopped short in front of the glossy black door and took a deep breath. Why the hell have I come? He thought, somewhat frantically. 'He's a rude, abrasive lunatic who falls out of trees whilst "helping the police with their enquiries" and knew practically everything about me five minutes after we met. Plus he makes me feel so stupidly giddy I may as well be sixteen again!
1. Chapter 1

**Rating:** Mature - NC-17 mature. I'm not kidding!  
**Status:** Complete  
**Warnings, kinks and contents:** AU first meeting, Johnlock, first kiss, first time, explicit sex, and some fluff too.  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own, don't claim, not making any profit.  
**Author's Note:  
**A stand alone fic that just happens to also be a 'what happened next' for Chapter 4 of AtlinMerrick's glorious "The Day They Met" – a fic containing a plethora of AU first meetings for Sherlock and John.

When I left a comment on Atlin's chapter I told her that I was happily imagining what followed. She said she'd like to know too, and suggested I told the story. Since you just don't say no to Atlin, this is the result.

Whilst you can read this without having read Atlin's chapter first I would heartily recommend you do pop over and read it. I'll wait. Seriously. Because it's Atlin, so it's glorious and thus you will love it, plus once you've read it you'll get the references at the start, some of which will hopefully make you laugh.

And yes, again I say, there is sex! Apparently the boys put out on a first date when they haven't met in a hospital. Who knew!

Oh, and this was painstakingly beta'd by Ladyprydian who is a wonderful person and made Chapter 2 so much better than it would have been if I'd been left to my own devices.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

John stopped short just in front of the glossy black door and took a deep breath.

_Why the hell have I come?_ He thought, somewhat frantically. _He's a rude, abrasive lunatic who falls out of trees whilst "helping the police with their enquiries" and knew practically everything about me five minutes after we first met. Plus he makes me feel so stupidly giddy I may as well be sixteen again._

He shook his head slightly.

_And therein lies the problem. I shouldn't get involved in anything that might knock me back off my feet. Because, yeah, I know I still miss the Army but since Mike helped me out and the locum work took off life doesn't seem quite so empty. I see a few mates down the pub from time to time and I'm spending much more time out of the flat than I was. And the flat isn't that bad, anyway. It may be tiny and beige and bland but it's clean, it's cheap and it's handy for work. I can cope, hell I am coping, so chasing a possibility that's likely to end in tears really isn't worth risking ending up back in therapy after all these months._

He ran one hand over his hair then tugged at his collar, worrying his lower lip between his teeth as he did so.

_So why have I let spending an hour exchanging insults with a madman in a garden in the London suburbs make me throw any semblance of behaving sensibly right out the window? I mean seriously, given my track record with relationships, I should be running hard and fast in the opposite direction. Yet here I am, on his doorstep, about to look at a room in his flat that I probably can't afford anyway and wondering if I've still got the moves to ensure the room I see most of is his bedroom. What on earth am I doing?_

His phone beeped in his pocket. A text:

**_Living dangerously. Come up, the door is open – SH_**

John glanced up to see a movement in the first floor window and felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He'd only lent Sherlock his phone this afternoon for three minutes, tops, and yet the man had memorised his number.

He was inside before he could do more than blink, never mind think up any more reasons for turning his back on the only person that had made him feel really alive since Afghanistan. The tantalizing smell of Schezuan chicken that filled the stairway was more than enough to banish any lingering doubts, making his mouth water as he made his way up the stairs.

'I hope you're hungry.'

Sherlock spoke from the middle of the room as John stepped over the threshold and John's eyes went to him immediately.

Yes, still ridiculously tall, still achingly thin, and now sporting a properly developed bruise down the left side of his face that, unfairly, didn't detract from his attractiveness one iota.

'The Chinese I ordered from owe me a few favours and they seem to have somewhat overcompensated. Although I don't anticipate any problems given that you haven't eaten properly today.'

'And that deduction is based on what? That I haven't dropped mayonnaise on my jumper? Or can you tell by my thumb, or perhaps my lack of tie?'

'You looked me up on line.' Sherlock smiled. A lazy, catlike smile that made John's stomach flip in a most pleasant manner

'Yes.'

'And?'

John raised an eyebrow. 'Your marketing skills leave a lot to be desired. If I hadn't already met you I might be tempted to think you'd come over better in person.'

Sherlock mirrored his expression. 'Your balls are still sore, then?'

For a heartbeat they just looked at each other before John dissolved into laughter. Well into giggles, actually, if you're going to be pernickety about it. And then Sherlock was laughing too and John ended up leaning against the wall by the door, arms wrapped round his empty – yes, Sherlock was right – stomach as they hiccupped and wheezed themselves calm again.

'Oh God, I needed that,' John gasped after five minutes, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes.

'Me too,' Sherlock answered from where he was now collapsed in a low, black leather armchair.

John looked up sharply. Sherlock had sounded, and was now looking, slightly bemused, his eyes gazing downward as if trying to look at his own mouth. John got the impression that Sherlock's instinctive admission was what had startled him, rather than their shared laughter.

_He's as lonely as I am_, John realised. The thought made his stomach hurt in a very different way to the hunger and he pushed it away, sought refuge in the mundane instead.

'Nice place,' he said as he stood straight again and took a proper look round the untidy room. 'Eclectic, yet cosy.'

'Mrs Hudson is an understanding landlady.'

Sherlock stood, but he wasn't looking at the room. No, his gaze was fixed on John, eyes raking over him, making him feel naked despite several layers of clothing. He'd never been looked at like that before by anyone, had never been on the receiving end of that level of scrutiny; which was saying something since he'd been eyeballed by some of the best sergeants at Sandhurst.

_I should find this disconcerting_, he told himself as he watched Sherlock watching him, _but I don't. It …It makes me want him to …_

He didn't finish the thought but it must have been written across his face anyway because Sherlock moved swiftly, covering the space between them in seconds and stopping a mere arms length away.

'You are a remarkable man, John Watson.'

'I … um, thank you?'

Sherlock laughed again, but this time it was rich, low, and full of promise as he took one more step. Right into John's personal space.

John's mouth went dry in anticipation, tongue flicking out to wet his lips involuntarily. The hitch in Sherlock's breath the action produced, along with the widening of his pupils in storm cloud irises, made John repeat it. Although this time he did it slowly and deliberately, holding Sherlock's gaze all the while.

'I don't do this,' Sherlock practically growled, even as he leant closer, one hand steadying himself on the wall and the other moving up to hover millimetres from John's jaw. 'I don't have friends. I don't socialise. I don't let sentiment cloud my judgement nor desire to enter my head. I certainly don't invite people to the flat and then seduce them before they've barely got through the door. Yet here you are. Because I broke all my rules and asked. And you broke yours and came. You came because I asked.'

'I did.' John said, because it seemed like something was required of him.

He could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly; feel the pulse thudding in his throat at their proximity and the visceral need coursing through him to touch Sherlock, to taste him. Most of his brain was perfectly happy with that plan too, screaming at him to just kiss the strange confession right out of Sherlock's mouth, before Sherlock's ears caught up with his tongue and he put a stop to everything before it had properly started.

But another, smaller part, held the impulse in check; the part which had just made the connection between Sherlock's words and the look of sheer disbelief on DI Lestrade's face this afternoon, when Sherlock had said, somewhat abruptly but with a good deal of warmth, "Tonight, John. 7pm. 221B Baker Street", before striding off in a swirl of coattails. At the time he'd thought the DI's reaction was down to the fact he hadn't heard Sherlock deduce that John was fed up with his miserable little bed sit and say he had a room for rent. Now though, he suspected the DI would have been even more surprised if he'd realised Sherlock had basically asked him to be his flatmate.

The thought was pushed aside as Sherlock moved closer still and spoke again, breath ghosting warm over John's face. John's nose, already full of the rather intoxicating scent of Sherlock's cologne, now picked up a faint hint of cigarettes.

'I shouldn't care,' Sherlock rumbled; voice so deep it vibrated through both of them. 'You shouldn't be this interesting. I shouldn't want this with you … Want you ... But I do.' His hand finally made contact, thumb stroking over John's cheekbone and then up to his temple.

'Good,' John breathed back, reaching up and winding his fingers into Sherlock's unruly curls, 'Because I want you, too.'

'Obvious,' Sherlock retorted. Then he pressed his lips to John's.

_He kisses the way he looks at me_, John thought a little hazily, five minutes later, _so intensely it almost burns_.

The door remained wide open beside them, but frankly he couldn't give a flying fuck that they could be interrupted at any moment. Because Sherlock was flush against him, warm and heavy, pinning him to the wall. And his tongue was teasing and stroking and circling in John's mouth in such a way that …. Well, if you'd asked John before now whether he was a good kisser, he'd have winked and said, "Bloody good, actually". Compared to Sherlock, however, he was only ever going to be "adequate".

Between the instant arousal Sherlock's proficiency had generated and the way his nerve endings were sparking at each point they were pressed together, John was beginning to wonder if he'd ever remember how to breathe properly again. Not that he cared if he couldn't, mind and body both being entirely on board the "Sherlock continuing to kiss him like this forever" train. To be honest it was more of a "Sherlock keeping doing whatever he wants as long as he doesn't stop" train and if that train had, at any point, any brakes whatsoever, they were now entirely burnt out.

That should have surprised John, since it had been an awfully long time since he'd been taken apart by nothing more than a kiss, never mind not being the once in control. But he wasn't surprised at all. Possibly because having Sherlock in his arms felt right on a molecular level he could neither explain nor properly comprehend, but mostly because he didn't have any spare thoughts left to be surprised with.

All the brain cells that hadn't gone south with the majority of his blood, or become entirely focused on Sherlock's mouth and those fucking delicious lips, were completely take up with the way Sherlock's hands were roaming over his arms, shoulders and chest, and the fact that Sherlock's leg had just slid between John's thighs. And then there was the way Sherlock was moaning so wantonly that porn directors would have paid to record him …

_Or am I the one moaning? Or are we both at it?_ _Not that it matters. Not as long as Sherlock keeps kissing me, keeps _…

The moment was shattered by an inordinately loud rumble from John's stomach and he winced, as much from embarrassment as from the pain of the cramping hollowness.

'I was right then.' Sherlock disengaged but didn't pull away, resting his forehead against John's. The corners of his mouth had turned down into an odd approximation of a smile and his smugness at being correct was almost lost in the breathy quality of his voice. 'You really haven't eaten anything today.'

John made a sort of affirmative noise whilst heaving in much needed gasps of air and trying to remember how to use his mouth for talking.

'Yeah,' he managed eventually. 'Locum work isn't conducive to regular meals.'

'Conducive to us not getting caught in flagrante by Mrs Hudson, though.' Sherlock pulled away properly and stepped back just as John heard the sound of light footsteps on the stairs.

'Don't think it'll make much difference,' he muttered, taking in Sherlock's swollen lips, the spots of colour high on his cheekbones and the absolute birds nest John had made of his hair. 'Not if I look half as well kissed as you do.'

Sherlock gave an inelegant snort of laughter as he ineffectually ran his palms down his rumpled shirt. 'Three … two … one …' he murmured.

'Sherlock, dear, are you … Oh! I didn't know you had company.'

John turned to greet the owner of the soft voice only to find himself on the receiving end of a gentle smile topped by a kindly, but incredibly knowing, gaze.

'John … John Watson.' He stuck out his hand. 'Pleased to meet you.'

'_Doctor_ John Watson,' Sherlock corrected. 'The same doctor I mentioned might be interested in the second bedroom and whom is to be thanked for the fact my face doesn't look worse.'

'You mean because I refrained from punching you the minute you opened your mouth and started being obnoxious, so only one side of your face is bruised?'

'_Doctor_ _Watson_,' she said in a scandalized tone, although her eyes glittered with suppressed amusement. 'How can you talk about punching my tenant? Do they not make you take the Hippocratic Oath anymore?'

John was once again beaten to a response by Sherlock.

'No, Mrs Hudson, medical professionals these days are not required to spout useless, unenforceable promises before they are set loose on unsuspecting patients. However I suspect John's time in the army is the cause of his propensity for physicality, rather than any lack of doctorly spirit.'

'I think he likes you,' Mrs Hudson patted John's hand before finally releasing it. 'He only gets this verbose about living people when he's flustered.'

She looked up at a gaping Sherlock and fixed him with a stern gaze.

'I'm going to my sister's for the weekend so you'll be on your own. Please try not to blow anything up whilst I'm gone and do remember that you need to eat more than once in a blue moon. It was lovely to meet you, John dear. The spare room is up the stairs. Although …' she looked between them with an almost impish expression on her face. 'Somehow, I don't think you'll be needing it.'

John was saved from trying to find a sensible response by his stomach protesting its ill-treatment even more loudly than before.

'Oh _Sherlock_!' She chided, chivvying John towards the glass door to his left and into an equally untidy kitchen. 'The poor man's hungry and you're keeping him in the doorway like an unwanted salesman. Where are your manners?'

She didn't wait for an answer, pointing John towards a relatively clear place at the table and bustling over to a cupboard. 'At least I did the washing up last night so you've got some clean plates. Now do you want tea or …'

'We're fine, Mrs Hudson.' Sherlock took the plates out of her hands and gave her a kiss on the cheek with one swift movement. 'As you're so fond of telling me, you're not my housekeeper and, as two grown men, I'm sure we'll manage to feed ourselves Chinese takeaway.'

'Oh you,' Mrs Hudson said, patting the unbruised side of his face affectionately. 'I'll leave you to your wooing then. Goodbye Dr Watson.'

And she was gone, leaving Sherlock spluttering like a wet cat and John shaking so hard with laughter he almost couldn't get his coat off.

'What a lovely lady,' John said as soon as he had the breath to speak again. 'I really like her.'

'Hmmph!' was Sherlock's only response as he shoved the plates back in the cupboard and then plonked a bowl in front of John, dropped a pair of chopsticks by his left hand and then deftly began laying out foil containers. A pointed look was enough to tell John to start helping himself.

'You weren't kidding about the volume, were you,' John said, grabbing one of the egg fried rice portions and using the chopsticks to push some into his bowl. 'And I'm not even going to ask how you know what my favourites are.'

'It _was_ the lack of tie,' Sherlock deadpanned as he slid into the seat opposite John and picked up his chopsticks. At which point John almost dropped his own, because Sherlock using chopsticks was quite a sight.

John wasn't sure if it was the way he twirled them before settling them between forefinger and thumb or the swift stabs and clicks as he picked out the choicest items from the spread but there was something about watching those fingers move so smoothly and intricately that sent heat pooling in John's gut.

'My work involves fingertip searches and a lot of delicate experimentation,' Sherlock said, reaching across with his free hand and, with a gentleness that belied his burning gaze, pushing John's jaw closed. 'Manual dexterity and precision are very important to me.'

'Right, good … that's good,' John could feel his face flushing and, despite what they'd been doing not fifteen minutes before, he felt unaccountably embarrassed about what he was now imagining Sherlock using those dexterous digits to do.

His stomach, however, would not be denied any longer and so they spent the next ten minutes in companionable silence as John ate his way steadily through his helping and Sherlock made reasonable inroads into his own. By the time John had helped himself to seconds and his stomach was comfortably filled he felt calm enough to mentally congratulate himself on not acting like a horny fifteen year old on a first date and to look up at Sherlock.

Which was something of a mistake. Because Sherlock smiled at him, the slow and lazy smile of a predator that has his prey exactly where he wants it. Effortless he reached out and picked up the piece of chicken on the top of John's bowl; fluidly transferring it to his mouth and sucking it from the chopsticks in a manner that hollowed his cheeks and widened his eyes.

John's chopsticks clattered onto the table as he forgot how to swallow, and once again lost the ability to breathe.

'Problem, John?' Sherlock's voice was a silken purr that really shouldn't have sounded as good as it did.

'No, I …'

'You're flushed.' Sherlock's eyes twitched into a smile as he ran his tongue over his lips. Then he leant forward, the movement accentuating the tightness of his shirt and the muscles beneath. 'Are you hot, John?'

'Umm … yes … bit warm … thanks.' John fought against the urge to close his eyes in mortification at how flustered Sherlock was making him with nothing more than his eyes, his mouth and some tricks that John had used himself on occasion. 'I just … uh … Soy sauce?'

'Fridge,' Sherlock said, gesturing vaguely at the appliance next to John, apparently entirely unperturbed by John's random request, his eyes remaining totally focused on John's face. 'Top Shelf.'

John, grateful that he was going to get to put his face somewhere cool and out of Sherlock's sight for a few seconds, was already on his feet and pulling the door open when Sherlock made a very strange noise in the back of his throat.

'John, don't. There's …'

Sherlock's strangled words tailed off as John stared blankly into the fridge.

'I'm not dreaming, am I?' He blinked, hard, a couple of times, just in case.

'No.' The purr had gone from Sherlock's voice, leaving it flat and hard. When John stole a look from the corner of his eye, he could see the smouldering gaze and the seductive posture had also left. Sherlock's face had completely closed off and his shoulders were tense. It reminded John of the way Private Heath – cocky little bugger that he'd been - had looked when he was bracing himself for a balling out he didn't think he deserved. It wasn't a good look on Sherlock but, given everything he'd seen of the man so far, he could well believe it was one he wore often. _But not how I want you to look right now, _John thought as he tamped down on his initial surprise and tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

'Well, you did say you experiment,' John said, in what he hoped was a jovial tone, whilst narrowing his eyes speculatively at the metal tray on the middle shelf. 'So if I had to guess I'd say this is something to do with fingernail "growth" after death, since these fingers look as if they belong to different people and were cut off at various stages of rigor and decomp. Or …' He peered round the fridge door and grinned at Sherlock, cocking one eyebrow as he did so. '… do you have an entirely out of control finger fetish you really should have warned me about?'

John didn't take much notice of Sherlock's lack of response to his attempt at a joke, too busy chuckling as he closed the fridge and then turned properly toward Sherlock. 'It's _just_ like being back at Uni. Are you sure you're not a frustrated medical student? Because …' He stopped abruptly when he saw Sherlock's face.

'Sherlock?'

The complete blankness in both expression and gaze remained for a second, but then Sherlock's eyes flickered and he tilted his head to one side, forehead wrinkling as he pressed his hands together and drew them up until the tips of his middle fingers were resting on his bottom lip. John didn't flinch under the scrutiny, just stared placidly back, the smile still on his face and his arms loose at his sides.

'You're genuinely amused by this.' Sherlock said, finally. 'I thought you were going to try and be _nice_ about it.' The word "nice" was said in a tone most people reserved for describing politicians, or announcing they'd stepped in dog shit. 'Try and pretend you weren't shocked. Except you really aren't … You genuinely find this funny. You made a _joke_.'

'Yes. Well it is. Funny I mean. And it's certainly not the worst …'

John didn't get any further as Sherlock had moved swiftly over to him and was crowding him up against the wall.

'Finding severed fingers in the fridge makes you laugh,' he murmured breathily, for all the world as if John's macabre sense of humour was the most arousing thing he'd ever encountered.

John swallowed, hard. Sherlock's eyes were incandescent, his pupils completely blown. He was running his hands over John's arms and torso in a manner that made John's knees very unsteady and his face was almost close enough to kiss. John parted his lips and pushed up into the contact.

'I want you _now_.' Sherlock spoke into the kiss, fingers already working on John's shirt buttons. 'Bedroom?'

'Oh God, yes!'


	2. Chapter 2

**This is really, properly explicit men getting it on. If you don't like that sort of thing, please don't read this!**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

'Oh God, yes!' John gasped as Sherlock's hand slipped inside his boxers and closed, without even a second of hesitation, around his cock.

John was pinned to another patch of wall (this one being right next to Sherlock's bed), was naked except for his pants (which had elicited a knowing and appreciative smirk from Sherlock when he'd revealed them to be a rather vibrant shade of red precisely two minutes before), and was wondering how the hell Sherlock was still full-clothed (though minus his suit jacket).

They'd made their way from the kitchen to the bedroom in stages, each being marked by the removal of a piece of John's clothing that, despite Sherlock being as astonishingly talented with caresses as he was with kisses, had left John feeling a little like he was involved in a human version of pass the parcel. Admittedly it was an incredibly lewd version of the game, with only one over-eager player who had no intention of waiting for the music to stop before removing another layer, but even so.

The analogy went straight out of John's head as Sherlock fluttered butterfly kisses down his neck in time with teasing flicks of this thumb over the tip of John's cock. He dropped his head and sucked on John's nipple. Proper sucking, with a hint of teeth.

'Fucking Christ!' John's knees gave out and he slumped into Sherlock, sending them both toppling sideways onto the bed. Sherlock ended up beneath him, hands on John's shoulders, grinning up at him with an expression John wouldn't have found out of place on a homeless guy who'd just had a multi-million pound lottery win. It did funny things to John's stomach and chest and he found his mouth working on autopilot.

'You are stunning.'

He captured both of Sherlock's wrists in one of his hands and pinned them above Sherlock's head, eliciting a gasp that was equal parts shocked and aroused. John ploughed on, not willing to stop now that he had some measure of control of the situation.

'The most beautiful man I've ever touched.'

He used his other hand to start working open the buttons on Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, his breathing going erratic.

'I want to explore every inch of you.'

The final button came free and John ran the tip of one finger from Sherlock's stomach up to his neck. Sherlock arched under him, biting down on a moan.

'Will you let me?'

The small, jerky nod Sherlock gave was enough for consent. John leant forward and began pressing kisses across the now exposed skin, taking special care round the smattering of bruises on the left side of Sherlock's ribs. The kisses were punctuated with words like; "Amazing", "Delicious", "Wonderful", "Gorgeous", and Sherlock's moans.

Because _Dear Lord_ the man was responsive. If it hadn't been blatantly clear from the skill he'd used to take John apart, John would have thought this was his first time. Or at least the first time anyone had touched him like this – slow, steady and worshipful - which was blatantly ridiculous; no-one going to bed with this man could have failed to take the time to give as much at they were receiving … could they?

John was about to dismiss the thought as entirely absurd when the previous twenty minutes of Sherlock skilfully controlling every single move of their encounter flashed through his mind. If he hadn't overbalanced, would he have let Sherlock keep on dictating the pace and the action? Would he have been able to drag his mind out of the haze of pleasure long enough to pull himself together and return the favour?

John got his answer when Sherlock said his name, well, whimpered it if truth be told, and he looked up, straight into eyes that were gazing at him with a mix of awe, confusion and desire that made John's heart clench.

'Sherlock?' He released Sherlock's wrists and cupped his un-bruised cheek with his hand.

'I …' Sherlock shook his head and blinked, as if trying to wake himself from a dream. 'I don't normally …'

'Let people do this?'

'No.' Sherlock bit the word out, as if he was cutting off a further tumble of them before they could emerge. John could feel Sherlock's body tensing up beneath him.

'I can stop if you want.' John says, the words punctuated with gentle kisses to Sherlock's neck and collarbones. 'But I'd rather keep going. I want to make you feel as good as you've been making me feel.'

The look in Sherlock's eyes was one of deep uncertainty but his hands were running up and down John's sides and his erection hadn't waned in the slightest. John leant forward again and captured his mouth, stroking Sherlock's wonderfully plush lips open with his tongue, licking and teasing until Sherlock was writhing under him, hips bucking unconsciously into John's.

'It's not so bad, is it?' he asked as he broke the kiss and brushed Sherlock's curls away from his forehead. 'Letting me have control.'

'It's not.' Sherlock's voice was breathy but his eyes were sharp as they roved across John's face.

'You care. You care about me.'

'Yes.' John didn't dissemble, despite knowing that what he was feeling for Sherlock - who was now cradling his arse with his fine artist's hands - was more than just "caring". 'Yes, I do.'

'Sex, for me, has never been about emotions, about caring …' Sherlock let the sentence tail off but John heard the unspoken "until now" as if Sherlock had yelled it through a megaphone.

'You've been sleeping with the wrong people, then.'

'Obviously.' Sherlock smiled, brilliant and bright, his whole face shining. 'So are you going to show me what it's like with the right one then?' He arched one eyebrow. Challenge issued.

John smirked; he didn't bother to respond with words. Rather, he pressed a swift kiss to Sherlock's parted lips, then nipped and licked his way down Sherlock's chest whilst his hands worked on Sherlock's belt and trousers.

'Let me up,' Sherlock gasped moments later, pushing at John's hips. For an instant, John thought Sherlock had changed his mind. It must have shown on his face because Sherlock surged up for a powerful, hungry kiss.

'I need your skin on mine,' he said as he pulled away, wriggling out from under John and scrambling off the bed. He almost overbalanced as he tried to simultaneously take off his shirt and push his trousers down. John reached out to steady him, taking the opportunity to squeeze Sherlock's ridiculously pert arse and pull him closer.

Sherlock paused for a moment and groaned as John's fingers kneaded at the muscles before pushing John's hands away so he could drag his pants off. John scrambled to do the same.

Now completely naked, Sherlock stared at him with predatory longing. John could see exactly where that look was going to take them if he didn't act quickly, so he shot one arm out, snagged Sherlock by the waist and pulled him back onto the bed, surprising a squeak out of Sherlock that he would later deny ever having uttered.

'Skin against skin, you said?' John deliberately lowered his voice as he spoke, helping Sherlock settle back against the pillows, running his hands down Sherlock's thighs and ghosting across his hips. He was carefully not to touch Sherlock's cock, which was twitching eagerly at each teasing brush of John's hands. The sight made John's own erection throb with need.

'Hmm, yes. Touch me, John.' Sherlock wasn't pleading but he wasn't ordering either, so John gently gripped his knees and pushing his legs apart, insinuating himself between them.

'I think I can do better than that.' John leaned forward, bracing his hands either side of Sherlock's shoulders, lowering his head and sucking on the pulse point in Sherlock's neck as he dropped the rest of his body down onto Sherlock's. They both moaned loudly at the contact because _fuck,_ did it ever feel good.

'Oh God, John.' Sherlock's hands were on his arse again, squeezing as his legs tightened around John's hips; guiding them as he bucked up, sliding their erections together and making John cry out.

'You feel so good,' John murmured into Sherlock's curls and then kissed him again, rolling his hips in an achingly slow circle.

Sherlock moaned into the kiss, fingers scrabbling against John's back, clearly wanting more than he was getting. John smiled, pulling back slightly and pressing a kiss to each corner of Sherlock's mouth before murmuring 'Lube?'

'There.' Sherlock waved an arm in the general direction of the nightstand where a bottle of lube and a condom was wedged between a Moleskine notebook and the lamp.

'Did you think I was that much of a sure thing?' John asked as leaned across, grabbed the bottle and flipped open the top.

'I _observed_.'

John laughed and pressed himself against Sherlock, nipping at his neck in mock reproach. Seconds later the bottle was swiped from his grip and, before John could process what was happening; Sherlock's now slick hand had snaked between their bodies, fingers wrapping themselves round both their cocks.

'Christ, that's good.' John arched his back into the contact, pushing up onto his hands and dropping his head so he could watch Sherlock's pale fingers slid up and down their cocks.

'That is … the sexiest thing … I've ever seen …' John gritted out. Sherlock "hmm-ed" his agreement, fingers tightening infinitesimally. Just enough to really ramp up the sensation.

John groaned, loud and long. He was burning with need, his body screaming at him to just get on with it, to take and take and take until he was sated; but he didn't. This wasn't just a shag. This wasn't just about him getting off and going home. He wanted this to be all about Sherlock, about giving this captivating man as much pleasure as was physically possible. He had no intention of rushing anything and certainly no intention of ceding control again unless it was unavoidable. So when Sherlock started to move his hand faster John reached down and stopped him, kissed the tip of Sherlock's nose when it was wrinkled in mute protest.

'I have other plans for the lube,' he said with a wink before levering himself up and sitting back on his heels as he groped for the bottle now tangled in the bedding.

Sherlock let his legs fall open in unspoken invitation, leaving him completely and gloriously exposed. His right hand remained wrapped loosely round his cock and his left twisted into the sheets.

'You look like the best kind of pre-Raphaelite painting,' John said, smoothing his free hand over Sherlock's inner thigh before slicking them both and dropping the lube again. 'All that flushed ivory skin, those sensuous lips and your hair fanned out on the pillow like a halo of shadow. Burne-Jones and Rossetti would have hung up their brushes if they'd managed anything this perfect because, even with the bruising, you are the most radiant, most desirable thing I've ever seen. You scare me in the best way because it feels dangerous to be here, touching you like this … And there's no need to look so shocked. I may be an ex-soldier but I'm not completely uncultured.'

'Full of surprises,' Sherlock rumbled, letting the hand he had on his cock be replaced by John's.

John grinned at Sherlock, a grin that was feral and most definitely predatory. He proceeded, touch by touch, to take Sherlock apart. John's left hand moved in light, teasing brushes over Sherlock's cock, his right alternated between gentle tugs and soft caresses of Sherlock's balls. Sherlock was groaning from deep in his chest, eyes screwed shut against the onslaught of sensation, feet planted firmly on the bed, lifting his hips as he desperately sought for more friction, when John raised the game again.

A pillow, that was in danger of being knocked to the floor by Sherlock's flailing hands, was swiftly appropriated and positioned under Sherlock's hips. Before Sherlock had time to register what John was doing, John began kissing and nipping at the crease of his arse and groin, while slicking the first two fingers and thumb of his left hand with lube.

His first touches to Sherlock's pucker were fleeting, minute circles of his forefinger interspersed with brief pushes with his thumb. His other hand continued to move between Sherlock's cock and balls as John started to slowly work Sherlock open. The tip of his index finger was barely inside Sherlock before he pulled out the first time. Every push after that took him a little deeper, until his finger was inside all the way up to the webbing and Sherlock was babbling wildly, in what sounded like snatches of musical notation.

When he eased a second finger in, alongside the first, Sherlock's words turned to whimpers. The addition of a 180 degree twist to the slow steady slip-slide ensured that John brushed the very edge of Sherlock's prostate on every pass and the whimpers turned to full on keening.

Unable to resist, John leant down and added his tongue to the mix, lapping at the droplets of pre-come forming on the slit of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock pressed his head back into the pillow, his legs flexing and then tightening around John's hips. John, taking the move as a mute appeal for more, shuffled closer, rubbing the head of his cock up against his fingers as they continued to stretch Sherlock's hole.

'John?' Sherlock gasped, eyes flying open, his body freezing, arse muscles clamping down hard on John's fingers as he tensed up completely. 'John, I … '

'Breathe, Sherlock.' John feathered kisses all over Sherlock's flushed and sweat dappled chest before easing his fingers out and running a hand soothingly down the inside of Sherlock trembling thigh. 'It's okay. I can just keep going with my fingers. Or do this the other way round, if you'd prefer …'

'No, I want you like this … I just haven't …' Sherlock's hands twisted in the sheets. 'I've always been the one doing the taking but this time …'

John watched Sherlock's face carefully, noting the way his teeth were worrying at his bottom lip and how he was desperately trying not to look away but half averting his gaze at the same time. A moment of clarity, swift and sudden as a cloudburst, washed over John as he realised they were thinking the same thing.

'Oh! You want this to be different, too!'

Sherlock nodded once, jerkily, even though John hadn't actually asked a question. He surged up, wrapped his arms around John's neck and pulled him into a kiss so passionate that John's balance gave out and they fell back onto the bed, gasping and moaning into each other's mouths.

'Fuck me, John,' Sherlock rumbled a few minutes later, biting at the join between John's right shoulder and neck whilst grinding their cocks together. 'Please, for God's sake, fuck me.'

'Jesus, Sherlock.' John let his head drop against Sherlock's neck as he heaved in a lungful of air and desperately tried to keep it together. 'If you want me to do that then you need to watch what you say.'

'Is it the swearing or the begging that gets you?'

'Neither? Both? It's your voice. Frankly I think you could recite the phone directory in that tone and I'd be hard and ready to come in seconds.'

'Well there's one obvious answer to that, John.' Sherlock's mouth curled into what would have been a smirk had he not been so desperate. 'Fuck me until I can't speak.'

'Bloody hell!' John kissed him again, before he could say anything else.

The kiss started off hard and bruising; the two of them crashed together, all teeth and ferocity. Noses bumped, teeth clacked and nipped but, as it continued, as it lingered, morphed into something else. Something gentler, sweeter and more relaxed. Hands that had been grabbing began caressing, faces and necks were kissed, fingers stroked through hair, gasps became coaxing whispers until they had melted bonelessly together.

'I've got you,' John murmured into the damp, salty skin just under Sherlock's left ear, as he reached for the abandoned lube. 'I'm going to make this so good.'

'Mmmmm,' Sherlock flexed luxuriously as John's fingers slid back into the cleft of Sherlock's arse, resuming their previous ministrations now that the muscles had unclenched again. Sherlock's breathing turned slow and tidal as John worked, the inhale and exhale matching the push and pull of John's fingers.

'God, you're beautiful,' John said, the words bubbling unbidden from his chest as he stroked circles over Sherlock's prostate and Sherlock arched up, eyes screwed shut and lips parted in pleasure.

'Please!'

It was more of a moan than a word, as Sherlock writhed around his fingers, but John wasn't about to deny he'd heard. In fact he couldn't imagine denying Sherlock anything right at that moment, not with the way his eyes were filled with such a glorious mix of desire and desperation, the way his body was yielding to John, warm, welcoming and entirely pliant. It was such a counterpoint to the man John met on the bench in garden earlier that day, and a complete change to the dominant man who'd dragged him into the bedroom that John was, for a moment, overwhelmed at the knowledge that he was being a shown a part of Sherlock no one else had ever been privileged to see.

'You really are so goddamn beautiful, Sherlock.' He said as he reached for the condom, tearing it open with a steady hand and rolling it on in one swift, quick movement.

'You …' Sherlock heaved in another breath and tried again. 'You are too … Want you. Now.'

'As you wish,' John slid all three fingers inside Sherlock one final time and then, carefully, lined himself up, slicking on a little more lube just before he began the slow press in.

Sherlock was all tight, silken heat and soft, sobbing breaths. His eyes were wide open and fixed on John's face, taking in every change of John's expression as he sank in. John felt completely exposed, totally connected and utterly wonderful. He wasn't moving fast but he also wasn't stopping and just as Sherlock was reading him, he could read in Sherlock's face just how amazing the inexorable stretch Sherlock was experiencing as John filled him felt.

By the time he was fully seated, balls pressed against Sherlock's arse, they were both breathing as if they'd run a marathon and John barely managed to pant out, 'You ok?'

'Uh huh,' Sherlock rolled his head in a vague approximation of a nod. 'Move.'

John didn't need telling twice,

His name was falling from Sherlock's lips in a continuous rhythmic stream that, to John's ears, sounded like the most beautiful song ever written. He matched the rolling of his hips to the ebb and flow of Sherlock's voice, losing himself in the waves of sensation that were pulsing through him and in Sherlock's sea-green eyes. He couldn't have looked away if he'd tried.

He found himself surrounded by Sherlock; Sherlock's body, Sherlock's scent, Sherlock's voice, Sherlock's gaze. He could feel the orgasm building but he desperately tried to hold back, wanting to remain like this, drowning in sensation, as long as he could. But he couldn't deny his body forever and - when Sherlock wailed out John's name and tensed, muscles contracting round John as he shook through his orgasm – the white hot coil throbbing deep inside him pulsed once, twice, and then exploded through his body. He was paralysed by the strength of the orgasm, crying out Sherlock's name as everything but the shockwaves of blinding pleasure faded from his consciousness.

John came back to himself slumped over Sherlock, the other man smoothing his hands up and down John's back in a manner that suggested he wasn't aware he was doing it. Sherlock's eyes were closed but his face looked as content as John felt and so John did the same, happy to bask in the afterglow for a moment.

'I sometimes don't talk for days on end,' Sherlock said once they'd rolled onto their sides, the condom having been disposed of, and they were both capable of speech again. 'And I play the violin when I'm thinking.'

'Okay.' John brushed a few errant, sweat damp curls from Sherlock's forehead. 'And this is relevant right now because ..?'

'Prospective partners should know the worst about each other.'

'Prospective my arse,' John retorted, offering Sherlock a lopsided grin. 'I meant what I said before. I do care about you. I … I won't deny I came here tonight hoping we'd have sex but that wasn't the main reason I turned up. Like you said earlier, I came because you asked me to … because it was you doing the asking … because you invited me to move in. So I was intending to stick around. Unless you have any objections?'

'None whatsoever.'

Those two words eased the small knot of tension John hadn't realised was still buried in the centre of his chest, a knot that dissolved entirely at the stunning smile that now covered Sherlock's face. Leaning in, John planted a soft kiss on the beautiful mouth and then shifted, curling into Sherlock so his back was against Sherlock's chest and Sherlock's arm was draped over his waist.

'Good, that's settled then … besides, I've already seen state of the flat and the contents of the fridge. I think I might actually know the worst habits my _boyfriend_ has.'

'Indeed.' Sherlock said quietly, pulling John more firmly into the embrace and interlacing their fingers and resting them over John's heart. 'Although I would prefer to use the term partner, rather than boyfriend. I … I don't have friends.'

John refrained from rolling his eyes or telling Sherlock his assertion was bollocks. Anyone with half an ounce of common sense could see that the DI considered Sherlock his friend, Mrs Hudson treated him like a son, and Sherlock returned the sentiments even if he wouldn't admit to it. Instead he said;

'You have me … And I've got you?'

John felt rather than saw Sherlock's nod of agreement.

'Well then, if that's the case you can call me whatever you like,' John murmured, tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth as the day finally caught up with him. 'It's fine, love, really.'

Sherlock's fingers tightened round his own and he made a humming noise that was as close to a purr as John had ever heard from someone who didn't have claws and a tail. It was a noise of supreme satisfaction and, had John not been quite so tired, it might have caused certain parts of him to renew their interest in getting better acquainted with this man, whom he'd known less than twenty four hours but now couldn't imagine living another minute without. He made a mental note to be the cause of Sherlock making the exact same noise in the morning, then he let his thoughts drift in the fog of exhaustion.

He was right on the cusp of sleep when his brain caught up with his mouth and he realised he'd called Sherlock "love".

_Bit not good, John_, the small voice in the back of his mind, that always sounded like Harry, chimed in, _really, seriously not good in fact_. He couldn't help but agree. After all, it's one thing to admit to yourself that you've fallen head over heels for someone in such a short space of time, but it's quite another to blurt the information out to that person. Especially when you hadn't even realised you'd done it.

He tried his best not to panic but he couldn't help the sudden hitch in his breathing, or the way his body had tensed in Sherlock's arms.

'John?' Sherlock's voice was muddled with sleep. 'What's wrong?'

'What I said ... The word I used. I … I …' John stuttered into silence, unable to deny that he'd meant it but also incapable of asking if he'd ruined everything.

'It's fine, John,' Sherlock nuzzled his nose into the nape of John's neck in a way John knew, instinctively, was meant to be soothing. 'It's _all_ fine.'

'It's really all fine?' John queried, just as he remembered the purring noise Sherlock had made after he'd said it and knew the question was redundant.

Sherlock answered him anyway. 'Yes, John. It is.'

And so it was.

During all the years that followed, through the good times, the not-so-good times, and the downright bloody awful "if-you-ever-do-that-again-I-will-kill-you-myself-so-help-me-God" times, it really, always, was.

- Fin -


End file.
